


The Gift of the Magi, But Screw it Up

by librata



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Boyfriends, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Charles Xavier in a Wheelchair, Edie Lehnsherr Lives, Erik Has Feelings, Erik is a Sweetheart, Fluff and Humor, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, M/M, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:14:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28296615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librata/pseuds/librata
Summary: He doesn't know if he's buying too much, too little, or even the right things at all, because he's never entertained a guest as important as Edie Lehnsherr.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 78
Collections: X-Men X-Traordinaire's Mini Holiday Fic Exchange 2020





	The Gift of the Magi, But Screw it Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lynds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynds/gifts).



> Inspired by the lovely trio of prompts:
> 
> Light  
> Rose  
> Edie

Of all the places he hates to shop, Target is probably Charles's least favorite. The shelves feel as if they're packed too tightly and there are far too many displays scattered about, and when it's crowded—and it _always_ is—it feels particularly difficult to navigate.

But, he has a lot to purchase today, and Raven only agreed to help him shop if he let her drag him to Target, which is how Charles finds himself jerkingly guiding his chair along too-narrow aisles with a bouquet of yellow roses balanced on his lap.

"I _hate_ this store, Raven," hisses Charles as his wheel clips the edge of a large lip balm display (really, what kind of consumer nightmare do they live in to warrant a _lip balm display_ ). "Could you not have gotten your bloody bathroom towels somewhere else?"

"Beggars can't be choosers," Raven chirps as she pushes the nearly full shopping cart alongside him. "You think I'm here to be your errand girl?"

"I think that you're my sister and you'd have less strings to attach when helping me shop. I can't very well push a trolley."

"You've been in this country for almost a decade, you don't need to still call it a 'trolley' just because your boyfriend likes your accent," Raven reminds him and ignores his glare. "And anyway, if you hadn't replaced me with him as your shopping partner, maybe I'd forget the strings entirely."

Charles rolls his eyes, but he knows that beneath Raven's snarky facade, there's an undercurrent of truth. She's right—over the past year, he's spent less and less time with his sister in favor of filling his days with Erik. Hurricane Erik, Raven calls him for the way he's taken almost every aspect of Charles's quiet, comfortable little life and shaken it like a snow globe. It isn't even as if Erik is a chaotic force—in fact, Erik is perhaps the most careful and calculated individual he's ever met—but that's just it. He brings so many things to Charles's life that feel new and well-worn all at once. In their ease, they bring challenge, finding in each other their first ever intellectual equal. Amidst games of chess, animated dinner table discussions, and even post-coital glow, Charles knows that, for all of their differences, Erik is the only man who can ever be his match. And he hardly requires his telepathy to know that Erik feels the same.

Raven is happy for him. Charles knows she is. Hell, she's the one who introduced the two in the first place. But he also knows she misses being the one Charles calls when he needs someone to help him shop, or wants to go to the movies, or merely needs an excuse to get out of the house and visit that ridiculously overpriced coffee shop.

"I didn't know you liked being my errand girl so much," Charles says as he stops before a selection of cloth napkins.

"I don't. But Erik doesn't stop you from buying stupid things like I do," she says as she snatches the red and white striped napkins from his hands and quickly replaces them with a simpler navy set.

Charles glances at the napkins for a moment, and then chucks them into Raven's shopping cart with a small groan. It's already stuffed with candles, groceries, a new tablecloth, and fresh supplies for each bathroom. He doesn't know if he's buying too much, too little, or even the right things at all, because he's never entertained a guest as important as Edie Lehnsherr.

When Erik asked if he could bring his visiting mother over for dinner, Charles didn't know what to say. Erik isn’t a man who likes others to know just how sentimental he is, and even though Charles knows the stony exterior to be just that, Erik tries to keep the ramparts in place whenever he can.

“She’s visiting from Germany,” Erik had said as he casually formed and reformed the lump of metal in his hand, a habit Charles knew to be one born of discomfort. “And I want you to meet her.”

It’s difficult not to be nervous. Edie Lehnsherr is the only person on the planet who can penetrate Erik’s facade with ease. The only person who, when mentioned, makes Erik’s eyes lose their edge. Charles likes to think that, maybe, in conversation, mentions of himself may cause Erik to soften, but he knows that he can never, ever compete.

“She’s not...traditional, per se,” said Erik after Charles blubbered that of course, he would be honored to entertain her for dinner. “But she _is_ from another generation. Do with that what you will.”

Which is why Charles is sweating over napkins in the middle of a bustling Target, fighting the urge to throw up. He’s certainly not an excellent cook, but he’d found a recipe online for a simple pasta dish to accompany a fresh salad. The cleaning service (which he’d hired in secret, because Erik would be utterly floored to know that he’d paid other people to clean his own house) had left his home spotless and ready. His grey slacks are pressed, which he’ll wear with a white button down and a maroon sweater. Once he gets his shopping haul home and unloaded, everything will be ready to cook and welcome his guests.

And his stomach is still in knots.

“I’ve had enough,” Charles grumbles, and shoves the heels of his palms into his eye sockets before he swivels his chair around. “I could rob this godforsaken store blind and not be ready to have her over. Let’s go pay.”

“You’re overthinking,” Raven chides, but follows along anyway. “I can’t think of someone I’d rather bring my traditional mother home to than you, Charles.”

The weight of Raven’s words fall atop Charles’s shoulders, and not in the way she intended them to, probably. A bisexual mutant in a wheelchair is not exactly with whom most mothers hope their sons find love. Charles knows that it’s irrational, because he’s more than happy with who he is and the better half of his brain is certain that Edie will be, too. Erik, after all, is far more queer than he is, and less inclined to sheath his powers beneath a guise of politeness. And really, Charles is beyond worrying about what others think of his disability. He and Erik make the most of their interabilities, and Edie very likely won’t give it a second glance.

“We’re running behind,” Charles says in lieu of an answer. “Let’s just pay and get out of here.”

Charles and Raven stop at the cash register and wait for the man in front of them to finish paying. The cashier glances at their overloaded cart with a bit of a forlorn look, and Charles can feel disappointment leak from her brain. 

He’s about to wheel forward to begin taking his sweet time to unload his purchases, maybe just to be a bit petty, when a woman steps in front of him and places a small, flat box on the conveyor belt.

Charles blinks up at her. She’s an older woman, and she turns to shoot a small smile Charles’s way. Did she just...jump the queue?

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Charles says with all the politeness he can muster amid the burgeoning annoyance. “But, we’re actually next in the queue. It starts back there.”

The woman raises her eyebrows, as if surprised by the idea that there is, in fact, a queue. “Oh, goodness,” she lilts, but the smile never leaves her lips. “My apologies, sir. I’ve only this one item to purchase, and I’m in a bit of a rush.”

Her tone is friendly but confident, as if she fully expects Charles to let her barge her way to the front of the queue just because she’s sweet and an old lady. Normally, Charles wouldn’t think twice about it, but he’s ready to burst from his skin with nerves and annoyance and today simply isn’t the day to swallow everything that comes his way.

“We’re next in the queue,” Charles repeats, chin raising an inch. “You can wait behind us, or find another till.”

“Hey,” Raven hisses, smacking his shoulder. “Don’t be an asshole, just let her go.” Raven shoots him a quick glare before raising her eyes to smile at the woman. “No worries, ma’am, you can go ahead of—”

“No,” Charles interjects firmly, knuckles white around his wheel rims. “We were here first. It’s extremely rude to assume that you can waltz your way to the front of any queue. Move out of our way, please.”

The woman’s expression changes markedly. Her light smile melts into a hard frown, brown eyes narrowing. At the same time, her posture broadens, and anger radiates from her mind. “You are buying enough things to furnish an army overseas,” she says with an edge in her voice. “I have only one thing, and I must hurry, as I am headed to meet—”

“I don’t care who you’re headed to meet!” At this point, a tiny crowd of the cashier and two other patrons have stopped, watching the exchange with discomfort. Charles doesn’t care, though, because he has had absolutely enough with this bloody store and its rude customers. He’s not going to allow himself to be walked over for the sake of being _polite._ Not today. “I’m about to meet the woman who I’m hoping will be my mother-in-law in two hours! We all have plans, ma’am. Yours are no more important than mine. Get to the back of the queue.”

The woman crosses her arms as her expression darkens, and when she speaks, her voice is raised. “Are you going to argue with me over a place in a queue?”

“I think you’re the one doing the arguing—”

“Excuse me, sir, ma’am.”

A third, unfamiliar voice pulls Charles from his tirade, and only then does he realize that he’s been yelling. Loudly. There’s a stern woman in a Target uniform standing beside Raven now, and she’s pointing toward the exit.

“I’m going to ask you both to leave this store.”

“What!?” exclaim both Charles and the old woman at the same time, hands flying up. 

“You’re causing a disturbance to the rest of our guests, and you’re both going to have to leave the premises immediately.”

“But I’ve just one thing—”

“Immediately.”

Charles opens his mouth to argue, but before he can say a word, Raven interjects. “We understand, I’m so sorry,” she says hurriedly as she pushes the full cart toward the manager. She then grabs the handles of his chair and yanks him backward so that she can remove the bouquet of delicate yellow roses from his lap and hand them over, too. “We really are sorry for the disturbance. Have a nice day.”

And with that, Raven is throttling Charles’s chair away from the manager, the rude woman, and all of the things he needs to buy to make this evening go well.

The doorbell rings just as Charles is stuffing the styrofoam containers deep into the kitchen garbage can. Italian food delivered from a local restaurant is currently waiting on the table, alongside paper napkins that Charles dug from his pantry, forgotten from a long-ago dinner party. Mismatched candles adorn the meal, burnt at different heights. It isn’t the perfect home cooked meal or thoughtful table setting that Charles dreamt of achieving, but it’s the best he can do without his supplies from the store. At any rate, if either Erik or his mother asks, he at least has a funny story to tell.

His insides twist, though, as he makes his way to the front door of his cozy home, examining himself in the foyer mirror for a moment. He looks good—the sweater and slacks combination was the right choice, and his wavy hair is shiny and smooth. If the Lehnsherrs are disappointed by the impersonal dinner and bachelor-esque decor, he knows he’s at least cleaned up well.

“She’ll love you,” Erik had promised. “And I think you’ll love her, too.”

With a deep, grounding breath, Charles reaches up, twists the knob, and pulls the door open to invite the pair in. 

Erik is the first thing he sees. Tall, lean, and distressingly handsome with his sharp features and russet hair. He smiles down at Charles, and despite his nerves, Charles grins back up at his boyfriend and extends the warm press of his mind to Erik’s by way of greeting.

And then, as his eyes travel to Erik’s left, his stomach falls to the floor.

Her head at Erik’s bicep, Edie Lehnsherr is just as Erik described. She has a sturdy build and auburn hair with streaks of grey pulled back into a loose, soft bun. Her skin is pale and heavily creased with smile lines, and her dark eyes are kind. Warm.

And when those kind, warm eyes lock with Charles’s own, a current passes between them with such icy force that Charles is halfway surprised that Erik himself doesn’t shiver.

“W-welcome, Mrs. Lehnsherr,” Charles manages to stammer as he invites the woman he had yelled at not three hours earlier into his home. 

Edie Lehsnherr looks equally stunned as Charles, her face freezing in a mask stuck between shock and horror. Her smile, which had been in place when Charles opened the door, remained stuck in place, but the rest of her expression is far from warm. More than anything, Charles wants to delve into her mind and rip through the layers to determine exactly _what_ she’s thinking, but there’s something morally bankrupt about stealthily reading your boyfriend’s mother’s mind. 

It’s only when Erik clears his throat that Charles even remembers he’s even there. As if encased in cement, Charles extends his arm forward, and Edie raises hers to take the outstretched hand. They both tighten their grips, eyes still locked, and mechanically shake. “How wonderful it is to meet you at last.”

“Likewise,” replies the woman, and her accent is hauntingly familiar–he should have known better than to pick fights with old women with German accents, damn it. “My son has told me so much about you, Charles.”

Charles laughs, the sound hollow and edging on maniacal. “Only good things, I hope,” he trills. He releases the grip and backs his chair up to allow the two space to walk and as he does, he worries that he’s going to vomit right there. “Please, come in.”

He zips around so that his back faces the Lehnsherrs as he wheels into his home. “Make yourselves at home, I need to finish a few things up in the kitchen.”

The very moment he’s in the safety and solitude of his kitchen, Charles doubles over in his chair so that his forehead rests against his knees. It’s not a great position to be in while his breathing is already labored, but sitting up straight is too difficult at the moment. 

“Fuck,” he hisses to himself. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

Has Edie already told her son of the rude man in the store? Have they discussed his ugly behavior, agreeing vehemently that Edie had been in the right and that the idiot who wanted to spend his time yelling at elderly women is an absolute loser? Charles knows how Erik feels about his mother, how she can do no wrong in his eyes. It’s almost certain that their relationship will end tonight. 

“Charles?”

Charles bolts upright. Erik hovers in the doorway, eyebrow cocked. He’s resplendent in a grey turtleneck and dark jeans, and with that concerned expression on his face, he looks downright edible. The sinking pit in Charles’s stomach grows deeper. “Yes?” he manages to choke.

Erik frowns. “Are you alright?”

 _Absolutely not,_ Charles thinks without projecting, even as he lets a smile spread across his face. “Of course, darling,” he sings. “Just a bit nervous, I suppose. She’s your mother.”

The answer seems to satisfy Erik, and he smiles back, crossing the space between them so that he’s only mere inches away. “You have nothing to be nervous about,” Erik says, placing a hand on Charles’s shoulder. “You’re nothing if not charming, Schatz. There’s no reason for her to think anything but wonderful things about you.”

Of course, Erik has no way to know how utterly agonizing those words are, but Charles smiles anyway and leans upward to signal that he wants a kiss. It may be one of his last, after all. Erik obliges, lacing his fingers through the back of Charles’s hair as their lips meet. It’s wonderful, but too brief. “You worry too much,” Erik whispers. “And anyway, I think Ma is nervous, too. She’s acting funny.”

Charles has absolutely no appetite when he finally parks himself at the dining room table, directly across from Edie Lehnsherr. The 20 minutes of awkward small talk had been utterly agonizing, with Erik trying his damndest to engage them all in comfortable conversation until finally suggesting they sit down and eat. Charles and Edie had a difficult time meeting each other’s eyes—a difficult time saying much of anything, really. He won’t be able to eat, but the distraction of dinner is welcome, at the very least.

“This looks delicious, Schatz,” Erik muses while scooping a large spoonful of pasta onto his plate, but he quickly purses his lips. “Is this from Cucina Urbana?”

Charles’s blood runs cold at the mention of the restaurant. Of _course_ Erik recognizes where the damn fettuccine alfredo is from—he can’t remember the names of Charles’s colleagues who he has met a dozen times but can recognize a generic Italian restaurant’s generic fettuccine alfredo on observation alone. 

“Oh,” Charles says dumbly, unable to look anywhere but his plate. He knows how pathetic he must look, but the desperation to save the evening died the moment he locked eyes with Edie at the door. “Yes, actually.”

“I thought you were going to cook?”

Blasted Erik. Always sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. 

“Yes, I was going to,” he murmurs, and from across the table, he can feel the sickly discomfort rolling off of Edie Lehnsherr’s brain. “I didn’t manage to get my groceries today.”

_Please drop it. Please drop it. PLEASE drop it._

“Raven didn’t go with you?”

Damnit. 

Charles can’t lie to Erik, and especially not while his own mother is sitting among them. He’s never been opposed to lying to save face or maintain peace, but there’s something about Erik that demands veracity, and Charles respects him enough to give it to him whenever he can.

“She did,” Charles says, finally raising his head to look at the space between Erik and his mother. His fingers drum against the table. “But, I didn’t get to pay for the groceries.”

“You didn’t either? That’s so odd,” says Erik from another world. “Mama didn’t get to pay at the store today, either.”

In a move that’s as masochistic as it is brave, Charles looks toward Edie just in time to see her swallow thickly. Her cheeks look hollow, as if she’s biting the insides in an effort to hold her tongue, and her lips are tight. Those warm eyes are now chilly as long fingers clench tightly around her silverware. To her credit, she also spares Charles a direct glance as well, and in that heavy, terrible moment, they’re both at least in the same sinking boat.

“Is that so?” Charles manages through a dry throat.

“Mm,” continues Erik. “Isn’t that what you said, Ma? That some rude man started to yell at you, and you both got thrown out before you could pay—”

Erik stops cold. Charles isn’t able to look at him, but he can feel a swift current of realization turning in Erik’s head. 

He feels ill, and his cheeks turn scarlet. Across the table, Edie looks anywhere but her son and her son’s boyfriend.

“Did you….” Erik asks with a raised brow, and when Charles and Edie continue to redden and look away, Erik smacks his forehead with his hand. “Oh, _Zur Hölle nochmal!_!”

“In all fairness,” Charles says evenly as he turns his gaze back to Erik and as far away from Edie as he possibly can. “She _did_ cut me in the queue.”

“Goodness gracious.” It’s shocking how sharp Edie’s tone is when she speaks up. She’s been nothing but pleasant so far, and even in the store, she never let her voice veer into this territory. When she speaks, it’s as if swords slice through the air between them. “It would have taken you twenty minutes to finish paying for all of the things you were buying. I had only one thing.”

“Mother!” Erik’s palms are pressed into his temples now as he looks toward the glowering woman. “You jumped the queue!?”

“Without asking,” Charles pipes in, but when Erik turns to face him, Charles knows that Erik will not be supporting his cause, either.

“You _yelled_ at my mother for jumping you in the queue!?” Erik demands, harsher now. 

“So loudly that the poor manager had us both removed from the building,” Edie adds. “It was mortifying.”

“As if I’m the only one who did the yelling,” Charles scoffs, to which Edie replies with a scoff of her own.

“You caught the attention of the entire store with the sound of your voice—”

 _”Enough!”_ Erik roars, storming to his feet, and Charles has never seen him so animated. “Enough, both of you! I...I _cannot_ believe that you two got each other kicked out of a bloody store before you even had the chance to meet. Jumping the queue, mother, really? And starting a screaming match, Charles?”

Charles looks back down at his still empty plate. It isn’t a question as to whether or not he overreacted—he knows that he did. Yelling at people in public places for affronts such as jumping the queue is not a hobby he practices regularly, and really, he knows that he’s on the wrong side of the argument. 

“I’m sorry,” Charles murmurs, and all of a sudden, he can’t bear to be in the room any longer. Not with Erik’s anger and Edie’s disdain. It’s too warm and sucks up all of the air, and before he can stop himself, Charles is wheeling back from the table and toward the door to the back garden. “I need...a moment,” he says pathetically before disappearing from the house.

It’s over, Charles knows. In the low light of his back garden among the winter jasmine blooming arrogantly, he knows that Erik will never forgive him. And should he? Maybe he’s shown his true self, today. Yelling at complete strangers for the smallest slights? Only assholes do that. Maybe he really is an asshole, and Erik is completely right to break up with him.

It hurts.

His time with Erik has been, in all truth, the best in his entire life. Their connection feels so effortless, as if they’ve been lifelong partners. Within a month of beginning their relationship, Charles knew that Erik is the man he wants to marry, the man he wants to be around as he wrinkles, greys, and, god forbid, maybe even _balds._

He knows he doesn’t deserve Erik in all his intelligence and snark, passion and intensity. He is measured and careful in all of his decisions and unwavering in his beliefs. He drives Charles utterly mad, and Charles wants nothing else than a life like this.

 _Stupid Target,_ he thinks mournfully. Stupid Target and their stupid towels that Raven wanted.

“A lovely garden, you have.”

Snapping out of his reverie, Charles looks up to find Edie walking toward him, hands folded. In the moonlight, he can see the many ways she resembles her son. An elegant nose, a strong forehead. Thin lips, high cheekbones. Her expression has none of its edge, now.

“The winter flowers are in bloom,” Charles answers, turning his eyes toward the joyful, star-shaped jasmine swaying in the gentle breeze. “Erik finds it amusing that I keep a true seasonal garden.”

He hears a small, gentle grunt that’s nearly a laugh as Edie takes a seat on the stone bench several feet from Charles. Still too glum to look at her, Charles reaches forward and delicately plucks a bloom. 

“He’s a good boy,” Edie says finally. “Many of my friends and our family were worried for him, you know. They feared that he would grow a wicked temper that would land him in trouble.”

Despite himself, Charles’s mouth slides upward at the corners. “They misunderstand him, then. His temper isn’t what will land him in trouble. The opposite of that, in fact.”

From the corner of his eye, Charles sees Edie nod, so he continues. “I don’t think he’ll ever do anything in a mindless fit of passion, but he definitely will do something that he’s convinced is for the greater good after years of measured thought.”

Edie laughs again, but this time, it’s a fuller laugh, and Charles finally turns to look at her. She’s smiling and her eyes crinkle at the corners, just like Erik’s do. “Yes, you’re absolutely correct,” she agrees. “My Erik will always stand up for his beliefs, but he will never cause trouble for trouble’s sake. As his mother, it does worry me, but it also makes me proud.”

“It may be what I love most about him,” says Charles, realizing too late that he’s said the terrifying L-word. If Edie is bothered or taken aback by it, however, she doesn’t show it, so Charles continues speaking with red cheeks. “How intensely he maintains his convictions.”

They’re silent for a moment, watching the flowers bend and weave ever so slightly in the barely-there breeze. A thick wedge still sits between Charles and Edie, and despite this relative civility, Charles doesn’t feel comforted.

“You understand him well,” Edie says at last. “I knew this long ago, when my Erik first told me of you.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” she nods, tilting her head to observe the cool light of the waxing crescent moon. “Far more than any of his past partners. He told me of your long conversations and arguments, and how you disagree on many things but still maintain respect.”

Charles doesn’t know what to say. Erik has been disclosing all of this to his mother? It’s not even something they’ve spoken about among themselves, but, really, do they need to speak about it? It’s just _there_ , and they both know it, he supposes. The fact that Erik can communicate that so clearly to someone else just cements it in place.

“Your son is an incredible person,” Charles says, twisting the jasmine between his fingertips. “The most incredible I’ve ever met. I truly wake up each morning scarcely believing that he chooses to be with me.”

A close-lipped smile warms Edie’s entire face, and almost without thinking, Charles leans forward in his chair and offers Edie the flower. “If you remember that bouquet of yellow roses I had in the store, they were for you,” he says. “Erik told me that your favorite color is yellow.”

Edie raises her brows, but accepts the flower and looks into its joyful depth. Her smile returns quickly, and Charles can feel humor rolling off of her mind. “I was buying a portable reading light for you. Erik tells me that you often stay up reading into the night.”

Charles stares at her dumbly for a long, painful moment, and then begins to laugh. Edie quickly joins him, and soon, they’re both doubled over where they sit, hands on their aching abdomens as peals of laughter echo throughout the garden. Several minutes pass with the two of them unable to control themselves, the humor of the situation finally smacking them both in the face.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Charles finally says through his waning chuckles, wiping his eyes. “I overreacted so terribly, and I was incredibly rude to you. You certainly don’t have to believe me, but I promise you that it’s not a habit of mine to pick fights with perfect strangers.”

“Oh, Süßer,” Edie hums, placing a hand on top of Charles’s own. “I apologize as well. I should not have stood in front of you. It was your turn, and I should have asked politely. I promise, that is not a habit I practice, either.”

Warmth spreads through Charles, and he turns his hand over to grip Edie’s in his own. “I was so nervous about meeting you, I was hardly myself,” he confesses.

“And I you,” she nods, and they both sit there for a long breath, smiling in understanding at each other.

“It isn’t the first time I’ve been escorted out of a store,” Edie admits.

“Oh?” Charles asks, and Edie sports another grunt, but this one is mischievous.

“It was when my Erik was young. Perhaps six or seven years old? He loved sweets, and I wouldn’t let him buy one from the store, so he thought it would be clever to sneak some from the shelves?”

“He _stole_ sweets?” Charles is astonished, but he, too, is smiling.

“Oh yes,” she nods, and now she’s beginning to laugh. “But he thought his pockets would be too obvious a hiding place, so he stuffed them into his underpants. By the time I was ready to pay, piles of sweets were falling from the legs of his trousers.”

Charles is laughing now, too, imagining a tiny, red-faced Erik with chocolate falling from his pants. He’s laughing so much that he hardly notices when the man himself appears in the garden as well, eyeing them both cautiously.

“Is everything alright?” he asks with concern, and Charles is still cackling when he turns his head up to face him. 

“Of course, darling. Your mother is just telling me about the time you stuffed sweets down your underpants.”

The phrase renews both his and Edie’s laughter, and Erik’s expression quickly drops, ruby tinging those high cheeks. “ _Mother_ ,” he hisses. The clear embarrassment makes Charles laugh even harder. “Mother, why in the world are you telling hi—”

“Oh!” Edie interjects with a joyful grin. “Oh, Spatz, let’s tell Charles about the time you were riding that horse and your trousers got caught on the saddle, and—”

“ _NO!_ ” Erik roars, turning on his heel and hurriedly marching back toward the house. “Dear God, Ma! You two are a pair of absolute hens!”

Charles truly cannot stop laughing now, and as Erik storms away, he meets Edie’s eyes, and he knows in that moment that this very woman may just be telling the story of today at their wedding with laughter in her voice.


End file.
